


Are You Ready

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Surrender 'Verse [13]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Blood, Breathplay, Caning, Canon Era, Cock Warming, Consent Issues, Dry Fucking, Feelings, Impact Play, M/M, Manhandling, Marking, Pain Kink, Passing Out, Rank Disparity, Rape Fantasy, Roleplayed Noncon, Romance, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Secret Marriage, Secret Relationship, Unconsciousness, choking on cock, everyone has a good time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:00:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 19,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24954178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: In which Washington takes his husband to the middle of nowhere and helps him make some noise.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/George Washington
Series: Surrender 'Verse [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/796566
Comments: 259
Kudos: 378





	1. Chapter 1

For months after Yorktown, Washington remains certain the British will rally and return with fresh reinforcements. They've done it before. This war has been endless—an eternity stretching across more years than anyone could have predicted. Why should this victory be any different than the other fleeting advances the Continental Army has accomplished?

But Yorktown _is_ different. Never mind the fact that Washington ordered his own husband onto the field of battle—or his relief that Hamilton survived the skirmish unharmed—their success over the British forces was stunning to behold. A brutal defeat that it seems even the crown's endless resources can no longer bolster.

When official word of the peace treaty finally reaches Washington's staff, celebrations break through the impatient tension that has permeated the entire camp. It unleashes a festive spirit the likes of which Washington has never seen. Delight and revelry run fierce that he could not interrupt them if he tried.

Once boisterous spirits calm there is still work to do. It is not a quick matter, to decommission a standing army. After years without reprieve from the pressure of command, the subsequent days and weeks spent wrapping up military affairs seem an almost capricious torment.

But soon enough even these tasks are complete.

"Your Excellency," Hamilton says, approaching Washington in the relative privacy of their quarters. He is smiling, a flirtatious glint in his eyes, an obvious spring in his step. The rest of headquarters have all but emptied. Only a scant couple of aides and officers come and go, managing the last of the army's business.

That business brings people directly to Washington's door at unpredictable intervals, which means he can't indulge the desire to tug his husband into his arms and render him senseless with pleasure. They've had too little time together during these last harrowing months of the campaign.

Washington sets aside the letter in his hands half read—it is only a munition stores update of no particular urgency—and rises from his chair. "Report, soldier."

"We're finished here. There is nothing more that requires either of our presences in this camp. Within three days it won't even be a camp anymore."

"Is that so?" A hint of teasing sneaks into Washington's voice despite his attempt to maintain at least the pretense of military decorum.

"We can _leave_ ," Hamilton says more softly, with charming intensity. "You've discharged and furloughed most of your officers. The rest are perfectly capable of managing without direct oversight. There is nothing to prevent us from going off, just the two of us, and finding somewhere to celebrate properly. Whatever final measures need managing will keep until you return."

"Hmm." Washington resists—barely—the urge to reach out, and simply says, "Where did you have in mind?"

Hamilton eases barely into his space, somehow simultaneously brazen and cautious, and touches Washington's hand—brushing the gold band of the wedding ring on Washington's finger. Alexander's eyes are warm with affection, and Washington can tell that keeping even this much space between them is costing his boy conscious effort.

"An isolated house, ten miles straight into forested wilderness. I spotted it on my last reconnaissance mission, and I've managed to track down its owner. He abandoned the place in favor of a homestead farther from the front lines, but retains ownership of the land. I negotiated under a false name for temporary custody of the acreage, and for delivery of such food and stores as two men might require to subsist for a couple weeks."

All of this information washes welcome over Washington's awareness. It feels impossible—too good to be true. And yet Alexander is staring up at him with absolute sincerity. Pleading eyes. This _is_ true. And the idea makes Washington's chest feel hot.

"Imagine it," Alexander breathes. "Just you and me, and no one else for miles. No need for caution. No need to pretend. You can have me whenever and however you please. And when you make me scream, there will be no need for quiet."

Before Washington can answer—or do something truly stupid like drag his boy into his arms—there is yet another clatter of footsteps on the stair. Another interruption. By the time the young messenger appears in the open door frame, Alexander has already moved a safe distance away and is rifling through a messy stack of papers on the desk.

When they are once more alone, Washington turns to Alexander and says, "Make all the necessary arrangements. We cannot leave tomorrow, but the day after. We depart at first light."

"Yes, Your Excellency," Alexander says, putting on a teasing pretense of deference. Grinning wide and—blessedly—removing himself from the room so that Washington cannot be tempted to indulge himself under unwise circumstances.

How he will survive the anticipation of everything Alexander just promised him, Washington sincerely doesn't know. But survive he must.

The reward will be infinitely worthwhile.


	2. Chapter 2

Until they are _actually underway_ , Hamilton remains terrified that something will arise to interfere with their plans. There's a certain amount of necessary secrecy, in that they do not want it known where they're going. The entire purpose of this endeavor is to take themselves entirely off the map. 

Hamilton has gone to great lengths to guarantee _no one_ will know where to find them.

At dawn of the second day, they ride together away from camp, just as Washington promised. Unnoticed at this early hour, with written instructions left behind that should prevent any panic or outcry. They reach the woods and ride on as quickly as they can, both desperate to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the slowly dwindling vestiges of the war.

They arrive at their destination just before nightfall on the same day they departed, and Hamilton is pleased to discern the house looks just as perfect as he remembers. Large enough for a family of farmers, yet nestled so snugly in the woods it could take years to clear enough ground for agriculture. The home itself is a single story tall, positioned at the bend of a noisy river. Fencing surrounds the whole of the little clearing amid monstrous trees. The entire place is so isolated Hamilton still cannot believe his luck.

There is a small stable tucked near the house, its doors sturdy against the elements. Hamilton has been thorough—he made sure there would be hay for their horses inside—and when he checks the bales he is pleased with both the quantity and quality his coin purchased. They won't need to venture afield for supplies, which means they can focus utterly and completely on each other, in a way they have never been at liberty to do.

Inside the house, Hamilton doesn't even have a chance to _think_ the words 'Now what?' before Washington takes charge of the mundane details of settling into their temporary lodgings. Unloading their packs into the clean and spacious bedroom, adding their limited travel provisions to the stores already laid in, hauling firewood from a precut stack in order to light a fire in the kitchen hearth. The day is too warm to require a fire, but when Hamilton points this out Washington keeps working with a smile—ultimately collecting a massive kettle of water from the river and hanging it over the newly crackling fire.

Glancing around the room, Hamilton spots a large tin bathtub in the corner, and realizes exactly what Washington intends. Comprehension is accompanied by a pulse of pleasure. The thought of a hot bath is unfathomably luxurious—so glorious Hamilton doesn't even mind that they are _finally alone_ and Washington has not immediately put him to more carnal use.

There is no hurry. Their tenure in this place will remain uninterrupted for well over a week, even with the two days' delay in their arrival. Perhaps some time to relax will do them both good.

Which must be Washington's thinking as well. By the time they've both bathed and eaten, the sun has set and _still_ Washington does not wrestle Hamilton beneath him. Instead he guides Hamilton to bed with unaccustomed gentleness, both of them naked, and with infinite care rubs down muscles Hamilton had not even noticed aching.

It's exactly the sort of fond physical affection that—before George Washington—Hamilton neither required nor trusted. He never felt worthy of adoration before. Of being cherished and pampered. As rarely as _either_ he or his husband are inclined to such moods without exhausting themselves at rougher play first, Hamilton no longer finds the experience terrifying. He trusts Washington far beyond the physical, and it is a trust hard-won.

He allows himself to savor the softness now, melting beneath strong hands and drifting to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

When he wakes in the morning, he is warm in Washington's arms. Sleepy and content and impossibly safe.

He snuggles closer, nuzzling beneath Washington's jaw. Practically purring with contentment when one of Washington's large hands cards lazily through his hair.

A moment later Hamilton gasps as that hand grips painfully tight—fingers twisting sharply in the loose and staticky strands—yanking his head back hard and baring his throat for Washington's mouth. Any hint of sleepiness vanishes as Washington's teeth catch hard at the sensitive flesh just beneath Hamilton's jaw. Right at his pulse point. A dangerous place to leave a mark, oh god, somebody might see—

Except _no one_ will see. The bruises will have ample time to disappear before he rejoins polite society, even fiercely as those teeth are digging in.

A shove, a shift of position, and now Washington is on top of him, familiar weight as the powerful body crushes him into the mattress. Hamilton feels so small under his general's bulk. Helpless beneath overpowering strength. He whimpers when Washington's mouth moves along his throat, marking a new spot. Sucking greedy bruises into the skin alongside sharper bites.

" _Please_!" Hamilton arches beneath the pinning weight. "Oh god, sir, please!" His cock is hard, and he burns to be taken.

"Please what, Alexander?" The playfulness in Washington's tone proclaims with perfect clarity that they are not pretending at anything serious this morning. "What do you need?"

"I don't know," Hamilton gasps, writhing beneath his general, desperate for friction. "God, _anything_ , just touch me!"

"Mmm," Washington breathes, in what Hamilton hopes is agreement.

A moment later and an enormous thigh shoves between Hamilton's legs, spreading him into a wide straddle and putting perfect pressure _exactly_ where he needs it. He makes an inarticulate sound, earning a rumbling chuckle from Washington's throat.

"Go ahead, my dear." Washington traces the words across Hamilton's shoulder with teasing kisses. "Take what you need."

It is not what Hamilton expects. And yet now he has Washington's blessing—now he has the gift of a muscular thigh wedged rock-hard between his splayed legs—he is too riled to resist the invitation. He rolls his hips, rubbing his trapped cock against firm resistance, moaning at how fucking _good_ it feels.

Washington makes no effort to pretend disinterest in his efforts. The general's low voice is all shivering encouragement and heat. Affection. Possessiveness. Hamilton shivers and ruts harder towards the satisfaction he craves. He whimpers, as undignified a sound as he has ever made, when Washington rocks down and forward, pressing even more forcefully between Hamilton's trembling thighs. 

The pleasure is mounting inside him, hot at the base of his spine, electric in his belly. And Hamilton instinctively buries his face in the crook of Washington's shoulder to muffle his increasingly incautious cries.

" _No_ ," Washington thunders, the illusion of anger going straight to Hamilton's cock and making him sob. The hand still fisted in his hair gives a brutal pull, forcing his head back. Forcing him to meet the fiery eyes of his husband and general. "I want to hear you."

Oh. _Oh_. Fuck, that's right. Hamilton sobs louder as Washington grinds forward _hard_. This is the entire reason they're here. He does not have to be careful. He does not have to be silent. And when Washington slips his free hand between them—when he finds one stiff nipple and gives a sudden pinching _twist_ —Hamilton's pained shout feels impossibly loud in the quiet bedroom.

From the continuing roughness of Washington's touch—the bruising strength in wandering hands a moment later—it's obvious his husband is pleased. Even were these proofs insufficient, the stiff line of Washington's prick rubbing at the hollow of his hip would be eloquent enough.

Hamilton finds Washington's pulse point with his mouth, biting back in kind, though not nearly as hard as the stings and catch of teeth his general has been bequeathing. Washington does not savor pain the same way Hamilton does, and that is an entirely acceptable state of things. When it comes to rough use, discomfort, lingering bruises, sharp agonies… Hamilton would just as soon hoard them for himself. He's long since stopped questioning the miracle of having found a man willing to give him everything he desires.

Washington moans a low, delighted sound, shifting on top of Hamilton so that the entire bed creaks in protest. He is meeting Hamilton's helpless, rutting rhythm with hurried thrusts of his own now. Both of them spiral higher together through overwhelming sensation, so potent Hamilton almost forgets to breathe. 

When he comes, he is so gone that he honestly doesn't know how loud he is, what sounds he might be making. He is aware of nothing at all past the rushing crest of orgasm, breaking over his senses and leaving him disoriented. Lightheaded with the force of his own satisfaction.

When his mind returns to some semblance of coherent order, he is panting, his chest rising and falling fast despite the warm weight bearing him down. Washington remains on top of him—motionless but for the quick pace of heavy breathing—clinging to Hamilton like something precious.

"George?" The syllable comes out satisfied and smug, and then his husband is kissing him, hot mouth taking Hamilton's with possessive force.

When the kiss breaks and Washington braces on one forearm to look him in the eye, Hamilton grins and asks, "How sweet do I need to be to convince you to warm another bath?"

Washington laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling with an uncommon smile, and kisses Hamilton again.


	4. Chapter 4

For the first three days of their stay, Washington pampers his boy in all the gentler ways that have been impossible under the crowded stresses of war. There is a familiar edge of forcefulness in their more intimate moments, but even here he is deliberately softer. Pushy without causing pain. Commanding without hurting Alexander.

It's not that he is _deliberately_ keeping his husband in suspense. The truth is, he enjoys this strange new freedom. This time and leisure to be together with no limitations, no hurry, no guilt for whatever looming tasks are waiting neglected in the endless stacks of correspondence.

But he is also savoring the mounting tension, as Alexander's eagerness grows more blatant. After all, how long have they waited for this opportunity? How many times have they both wistfully murmured in secret about how lovely it would be, to make all the noise they like? How satisfying to make Alexander scream and not worry that the sentries outside headquarters might overhear? Now, here where _no one_ can discover them, Washington can use his boy as viciously as they both crave, and there will be no one to catch them out.

On day four, Washington wakes to a kiss as Alexander rises from their bed, off on some inevitable mission to write something down. Even in their supposedly responsibility-free isolation, his boy does not cease to write during every spare moment, slowly demolishing the supply of foolscap and ink Alexander insisted on bringing along.

Unlike the previous mornings since their arrival, today Washington does not reach after and drag his boy back down. He allows Alexander to retreat unmolested toward the spare bedroom that has become an impromptu office—a space where books and papers and bottles of ink can remain scattered across every available surface without needing to be removed at meal times.

A very short time later, Washington rouses himself and dresses for the day. He finds a strange amount of comfort in the menial tasks of the morning. Collecting water from the river, bringing firewood in for the hearth and stove, tidying the mess of clothing they left on the floor in their rush to the bedroom last night. And then, once these things are complete, Washington undertakes a different set of tasks. Preparations. Laying in supplies of a different nature, because he has made his patient boy wait long enough for the rough handling they both truly crave.

Not much will be required, of course. Some rope. Some oil in the slim chance he decides to go easy on his boy. Some salves and ointments to soothe the hurts he intends to paint across his husband's skin and press intimately inside him.

Then, ready and quietly eager with anticipation, Washington sits at the table with his own small stack of correspondence—long outdated letters from home—and waits.

It doesn't take Alexander long to emerge. He must surely have heard Washington maneuvering about the front of the house, clattering about this new routine without any effort to be unobtrusive. Naturally he has sought out the first possible pause in his train of thought and set his writing aside in favor of seeking out Washington's company.

"Good morning," Alexander murmurs. He is dressed but disheveled, and his hair falls loose to his shoulders.

Washington does not answer. And before Alexander can get near enough to touch, Washington sets aside his own pointless work and rises to his feet. He keeps his expression sharp and somber, his movements tightly controlled, and stands tall so that the difference in their statures is exaggerated.

"Sir?" Alexander slips into deference, a sure sign that he has intuited Washington's game. His expression has taken on a nearly convincing air of wariness, but the spark of excitement behind his eyes readily belies the pretense.

"Do you realize, Colonel," Washington begins, setting the small gathered stack of his private correspondence away in a cupboard so that the table will be bare, "that we are entirely isolated in this place?"

Alexander stares at him, feigning confusion. "Are we? Does that matter?"

"It _should_ matter to you." Steely unconcern measures Washington's words, each syllable deliberate, calculated, smooth. "You have put yourself in an exceedingly vulnerable position, my foolish boy. If someone should desire to hurt you in such a place, you would be hard put to defend yourself."

Alexander's voice sounds somehow both small and rebellious at once. "Why would anyone wish to hurt me?"

"Hmm." Washington circles behind his boy, feeling the unbroken weight of attention following him even as Alexander struggles to hold position.

Then, movements taking on sudden vicious speed, Washington grabs him from behind. One hand at the nape of the neck, one at a skinny wrist, using his weight to propel Alexander forward and bend him sharply over the table. He holds Alexander easily in place like this, rolling his hips so that there is no missing the rigid line of Washington's cock grinding against his ass.

Washington leans down to hiss directly in Alexander's ear, " _Why indeed_?"

Alexander breathes a low sound—tortured protest—and bucks uselessly beneath the hands holding him down. "Let go of me!" he snarls when his efforts prove useless, jerking more desperately against the hand pinning his wrist. " _Fuck_ , you can't do this!"

"No?" Washington lays a stinging bite to the delicate line of Alexander's throat. "And who is going to stop me? You came here all alone. No one even knows where you are. I can do as I please. The only question remaining is, will you be good? Or will I have to make you behave?"

"What— What does that mean?" Alexander sounds frantic now, in keeping with his continued struggles. "How the fuck can you _make me_ behave?"

"Let me rephrase the question," Washington says in a deceptively gentle voice, even as he tightens his grip punishingly at the nape of Alexander's neck. "How badly will I have to hurt you in taking what I want?"

Alexander goes immediately, utterly still and answers in a defeated voice, "I'll be good."

Washington recognizes the feint and plays right into it. Pretending to be convinced. Loosening his hold as though he believes his husband sincerely intends to cooperate. Playing up a startled grunt of surprise when Alexander gives a violent _twist_ beneath him and manages to slip out of his hold. It's an impressive maneuver—one that would absolutely work on someone who did not know this boy so well—who had not played similar scenarios through so very many times.

He allows Alexander to get nearly out of range. Then at the last instant he reaches high and fists his hand in the loose shock of dark hair. Alexander gives a pained cry—genuine surprise in the sound this time—as he is jerked back by the hair, dragged off balance, and thrown unceremoniously to the ground. He lands hard, but Alexander does not signal a ceasefire, and so Washington doesn't even consider stopping.

"You disappoint me." Washington strides lazily forward as Alexander struggles to get his arms beneath him in an effort to rush back to his feet. Washington gives a sweep of one boot that knocks both arms out from under him and sends Alexander crashing to the floor once more. "I thought you, of all people, could be trusted to keep your word."

" _Fuck_ you," Alexander gasps, rolling to the side—away from Washington—scrambling to put some quick distance between them. "Don't you _goddamn touch me_ , or I'll—"

" _What_ , Alexander?" Washington interrupts coldly, overtaking him and dropping to straddle him, pinning him soundly on his back against the floorboards. "What will you do? You have no weapons. You are no match for me physically. How will you prevent me from putting my cock any damn place I please?"

"I'll bite it off," Alexander growls, and bucks his hips upward so hard he might well have managed to dislodge a lighter opponent.

Washington does not answer aloud this time. Instead he simply raises his arm and backhands his boy across the face. The blow snaps Alexander's head to the side and earns a choked cry. There will be a pronounced bruise on that cheek by nightfall. Washington barely modulated his strength.

Then, before Alexander can conjure any fresh rebuttal, Washington reaches down and curls his hand around his boy’s throat. The elegant sweep of neck all but vanishes behind his enormous palm, and he curls his fingers tight. Choking. Careful—always careful in the exceedingly rare moments he bestows this particular gift—applying just enough pressure to cut off Alexander’s air with controlled strength.

Alexander thrashes to no effect—opens his mouth as though to speak, or perhaps even scream—but no sound comes out. Only a strangled, voiceless grunt as both of Alexander’s hands fly to Washington’s wrist. Gripping hard, trying to dislodge him.

The attempt is laughably pointless, and Washington huffs a cruel chuckle. He peers into his boy’s eyes as instinctive resistance grows more frantic and then gradually weakens.


	5. Chapter 5

He waits until Alexander's eyes roll back and shut completely—waits until desperate struggles falter and all but stop—and only then does he relax his grip. For a short time, Hamilton remains insensate, and Washington uses the moment to maximum advantage. Manhandling the small frame with ease in order to strip his boy naked right there on the dusty floor.

He has not quite finished his work when Alexander begins to rouse, but his boy’s disorientation makes continuing a simple enough matter.

Washington has just tossed the last scrap of fabric aside when real awareness seems to abruptly return. Impossible to tell if he truly did render his boy helpless, or if Alexander has been playing along. The question is irrelevant in the end. Even now, as Alexander stirs to rebellious life beneath his hands, Washington is in complete control.

He once again allows the fleeting illusion of escape, before dragging Alexander down once more and this time shoving him onto his stomach. Then, quick as reflex, Washington settles astride bony hips—the contrast between nakedness and layered clothing pronounced between them—and wrenches both of Alexander’s arms unforgivingly to the small of his back.

Even with a length of rope ready at hand, tying knots is a challenge with Alexander squirming and resisting. But Washington perseveres. He binds his boy securely, looping the rope around skinny wrists. There will be no leeway for escape, but he makes sure he needn't fear cutting off his boy’s circulation.

There’s nothing he can do to prevent the rope burn that will come of Alexander’s inevitable struggles, but those are not permanent hurts and in any case his boy will welcome them.

“Stop,” Alexander is pleading. Emotion restricts his voice—or perhaps that’s just gravel from being choked unconscious. “Your Excellency, please. You can’t do this. You _won’t_ do this.”

Washington’s answering laugh is a vicious sound as he sits back on his heels. “Your faith in me is misplaced, my boy. You would not say such things if you had _any idea_ how difficult it’s been not to touch you. How long I’ve been waiting to claim what’s mine.”

“You _can’t_ ,” Alexander repeats helplessly, twisting on the floorboards. “Oh god, let me go, _don’t_ —”

But Washington simply sheds the topmost layers of his own clothing, unbuttoning his waistcoat as he opens his breeches and takes out the achingly hard line of his cock. When he leans forward, dropping his full weight along Alexander’s back and giving an idle roll of his hips, he savors the rough intake of breath. Cruel suspense as his prick slides, wet with precome, slick between Alexander’s thighs.

“No,” Alexander hisses, squirming to life. “No-no-no-no—“

“ _Yes_ ,” Washington snaps in answer. Then, repositioning, he finds his boy’s entrance and presses forward. The head of his cock catches at the reluctant rim, then wedges just inside, earning a first pained grunt in protest.

Washington holds perfectly still like that for several seconds, letting the anticipation linger. Alexander shivers and pants beneath him, waiting for the agony of being more thoroughly breached. This is an overwhelming sensation of raw power, of awe at the impossible young man lying prone and helpless under Washington’s muscular weight. Of adoration for his husband, and delight at being able to give him this—being able to _take this_ —of knowing Alexander’s trust in him is endless and complete.

The tight rim twitches around him, and Washington cannot bear to delay an instant longer. He _thrusts_ , shoving his hips brutally forward, plowing deep into his boy’s unprepared body.

Alexander screams.

The sound shatters through the empty house with no hand, no cloth, no clenched jaw to muffle it. It is a genuine sound. A wild shriek of agony as Alexander is split suddenly, relentlessly open. The shattered tone only makes Washington drive deeper, bottoming out with a stutter of movement that presses his hips and belly flush with the perfectly shaped swell of his boy’s ass.

There is no space at all between them, and this close Washington can feel his boy shaking violently. He can feel the frantic twisting of trapped wrists where they chafe at the rope. He can even feel—as well as hear—Alexander's gasping breaths turn fast and shallow when the scream chokes off.

" _Take it out_ ," Alexander sobs, trying to shake his head, trying to roll his shoulders despite Washington's weight. Washington can hear tears in the plea, the edge of panic. "Oh god, please, _fuck_ , you're tearing me apart! Take it out!"

Washington obliges only far enough to catch the tip at Alexander's rim again, reveling with unapologetic delight in the shocky gasps hitching in time with the movement. Then, no pause this time, he plunges ahead once more—a ramrod pounding deep—and Alexander's head falls forward as he keens a high, wounded sound.

This second thrust is easier than the first. Smoother. He has already made his gorgeous, mutinous boy bleed.

"Stop!" Alexander cries as Washington establishes a vicious rhythm. "S— _Sir_ , I can't— I can't— Oh fuck—" Any fragment of coherence dissolves in the face of the increasingly brutal onslaught. The noises escaping Alexander's chest are testament to the torture of being violated this way, and Washington delights in them. He adds his own moans and grunts of pleasure to the litany, but all the while he is listening. Memorizing the unmuted honesty, thrilling at the knowledge that there is no need to quiet his husband.


	6. Chapter 6

When Washington abruptly and completely withdraws unspent—a rough jerk of movement with no care for Alexander's already brutalized body—the maneuver earns him another cry, this one cut short as it turns into a ragged sob.

He drapes heavily forward, blanketing Alexander's spine, catching one ear lobe between his teeth and earning a startled hiss in answer. Without putting his cock back in that enticing vice, he nuzzles at Alexander's throat and commands with perfect steel, "Do. Not. Come."

Slowly, he backs away, pushes onto his knees, and climbs off of his victim. Of course Alexander renews his attempts at escape, regardless of the fact that he is hurt. It's a pathetic effort—a pointless sideways wriggle and attempt to _kick_ since he can't get free of his bonds—and Washington simply grabs him by the ankles and shoves, yanks, manhandles him onto his back.

Then he grabs his boy's thighs and forces them apart.

Even here Alexander fights him, snarling refusals, thrashing in his hold. The fight only winds Washington tighter, and he grips more roughly. Powerful hands dig into sensitive flesh, painting deep bruises as he wrenches resisting legs wide.

There is pink smearing the flesh of Alexander's inner thighs—blood and semen, though Washington has not yet reached his own satisfaction—and the sight raises his ardor to a greedy fervor.

He drops forward, pinning his boy, and prods his prick forward once more.

"Please stop." Alexander is crying in earnest, his face and throat a splotchy red, his cheeks slick and lashes shining with tears. His eyes are rimmed red, his lower lip bitten raw despite the free rein to make noise. "Why— _Ngh_!" Alexander's eyes clench shut, his head falling back as the very tip of Washington's cock penetrates him. He's panting hard when he blinks up at Washington again and demands brokenly, "Why are you doing this?"

Washington does not answer yet. Instead he ducks low to mouth at Alexander's throat, bites down _hard_ in the exact same moment he forces his hips forward, burying himself anew in the struggling body beneath him.

Alexander's wounded scream is even more perfect like this, directly in Washington's ear, fractured and lost. There is an undercurrent of exhaustion now, but Washington is nowhere near done with his boy. They have all damn day, and he has only begun to inflict the suffering he intends. The scream quickly fades to shuddering sobs as Washington rocks in and out. Riding his own cresting pleasure and ignoring the hard line of Alexander's arousal against his belly. He can only imagine the pain his boy is in—wonders if the discomfort of so much weight bearing down on his bound wrists and hands even registers past the more immediate sensation of being relentlessly violated.

Washington's mouth trails lower, painting new marks. Bites and bruises to mottle his boy's collarbone and chest. He presses his teeth everywhere, uncoordinated alongside increasingly desperate thrusts. He is determined not to leave a single square inch of untarnished skin.

A handful of times he breaks through and makes his boy bleed. Inadvertent, but of course he will not apologize. He simply moves on, chooses a new spot. Bestows new imprints of teeth, all the while feeling giddy at the now-constant interplay of whimpers and sobs and louder cries in his ear.

When his teeth capture one of Alexander's nipples and clench, his boy screams nearly as loudly as the first time Washington wedged his cock home. His boy is so sensitive, and so sincere, and Washington keeps hold a very long time. Teasing the captured nub with the tip of his tongue, tilting his head to _twist_ just so and earning a pleading whimper in response.

Washington releases the nipple with a final lick, then drives his cock as deep as possible and stills, flush with his boy's trembling body.

And _this_ —

This is a moment so perfect Washington cannot credit it. He wants it to last forever. Motionless where he is splitting Alexander open on his cock, Washington braces one arm on the floor beside Alexander's head—discovers his boy refusing to look at him—so he repositions the arm, gets a grip in Alexander's hair and _yanks_ his boy's head into place. Forcing eye contact. His other hand still clutches hard at one of Alexander's thighs, preventing him from any ill-advised effort to wriggle away.

"You really want to know why I'm doing this?" Washington murmurs, the gentleness of his voice belied by the brutality of his touch.

"N— No." Alexander tries to shake his head, but he can't with Washington's fingers fisted so tightly in his hair. His face is a disaster of tears, his hair a mess, his eyelashes glistening with moisture. " _Fuck_ , I changed my mind, I don't want to know. Don't— Don't say anything, just fucking _finish it_."

"You asked the question, Alexander."

"I don't care!" Alexander sounds utterly shattered with this protest. Broken, wrecked by Washington's assault. "Get off of me, I swear I won't tell anyone what you've done, I _won't_ , just let me go!"

“ _This_ is why I hurt you, Alexander.” Washington lowers his head to claim a searing kiss, holding Alexander still so there is no choice but to take it. Fucking his tongue forward into Alexander’s mouth, withdrawing just in time to avoid the retaliatory bite. He grins down at his helpless boy a moment later, a taunting expression brightening his features. “You’re at your best like this. Powerless and at my mercy.”

“Fuck you,” Alexander whispers, rocking rebelliously beneath him, gasping at the discomfort when the effort only jostles the length inside him.

“Do you know how often I imagined taking you like this during the war?”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Alexander repeats more loudly, but does not renew his pointless and painful physical struggles.

“Every time you opened that damnably pretty mouth,” Washington breezes onward as though his boy has not spoken. “Every time you challenged my authority. Every foolish stunt, disagreement, show of insubordination. Not a single day went by without making me want to bend you over my desk and teach you some manners.”

And then, before Alexander can argue further, Washington moves. A difficult maneuver, but one he manages with smooth and practiced finesse—bracing his knees on the floor, rising, pulling Alexander up with him—until ultimately Washington sits back on his heels. He holds his boy trapped astride his lap, pinned on his cock by the combined forces of gravity and Washington’s powerful arms. The new position fills Alexander’s all the more completely, and Washington nearly moans at the delicious sob that reaches his ears.

In theory Alexander should have a better chance of escape at this new angle. But even though he tries—Washington can feel him searching for purchase, trying to push up and off the cock impaling him—exhaustion and hurt seem to have taken too great a toll. His efforts are pitiful, and it is all too easy to grip him by the hips and force him to motion. Raising him with raw strength, only to drag him right back down, driving into him repeatedly and making him cry even harder than before.

When at last Washington comes, he resists the urge to muffle his own shout in Alexander’s shoulder. It’s difficult to break away from long years of habit—from the total need for silence—but if he is so eagerly enjoying Alexander’s unrestrained vocalizations, surely his husband wants just as badly to hear him.

The pleasure is overpowering. Satisfaction careens along his senses and carries him out of his own head. His only awareness is for Alexander—for the tight heat around his cock—for the violently shuddering body in his arms.

For the weight across his lap and the hot forehead pressed to his throat as Alexander rides out Washington’s orgasm.


	7. Chapter 7

Hamilton has not come.

It costs him every ounce of self control he's ever possessed, but he has obeyed the blunt command. Held himself back from an impossible edge, even as he relished the unrestrained sound of his husband's pleasure.

He has honestly never heard anything so perfect. And even now—still trapped in his own sharp limbo of arousal, still tightly spun with pain, still firmly impaled on Washington's cock—Hamilton scrounges up enough mental fortitude to pray it's a sound he will hear many, _many_ times more. They have a lifetime to enjoy each other, after all. The war is over, and against all probability they have both survived.

He expects Washington to linger in the moments that follow. Usually, after a culmination so intense, his husband requires time to collect himself. But for once he seems otherwise inclined, dragging Hamilton off his cock, dropping him carelessly back to the floor. Washington remains kneeling, peering down at Hamilton's clumsy sprawl with a nearly convincing air of disdain. Hamilton _aches_ with the need for release, and his ass feels feverish—raw and wrecked—pain that is familiar, but also more than Washington usually inflicts. Hamilton is breathing hard, shallow panting gasps that seem to fill the kitchen and broadcast every tattered scrap of his pain.

"You ill-mannered wretch." Washington's tone is quiet thunder. "Look at the mess you've made."

Hamilton blinks, confused. He _didn't come_ , did not make any mess—

Then his gaze falls lower on Washington's body and he understands. There is blood on Washington's cock, and staining cream-colored breeches where Hamilton's splayed thighs straddled him. Even the edges of Washington's shirt have been bloodied. If Hamilton had the strength or leverage to sit up, he would do so, desperate to see the mess smeared between his legs. To see the proof of damage with his own eyes.

Even without seeing it, he can feel it. The burning ache, the sense of being split in two, all the worse now that he is empty of the vicious intrusion. Surreal to feel his own heartbeat throbbing somewhere so intimate. _Christ_ it hurts.

And the fact that Washington did not let him come means the ordeal is not yet over. It takes conscious effort not to lick his lips in gleeful anticipation.

He realizes only belatedly that an answer is expected. " _I'm sorry_ ," he gasps, injecting the words with desperate fear, with the desire to appease and avoid further punishment. "Oh god, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to!"

"Hmm." It's a noncommittal hmm. Cold. Disinterested. Followed quickly by Washington rising gracefully to his feet and leaving Hamilton on the floor. "Your punishment will have to wait until I get this clean."

Hamilton's heart sings at the word 'punishment', but aloud he only sobs, "No! Sir, _why_ —" The question cuts short when Washington grabs him—once more by the hair—and drags him up from the floor. Hamilton chokes on a startled cry, but no sooner has he gotten his feet under him and his balance back than Washington propels him forward. Over the table, exactly where they started. Bent at the waist and utterly exposed. He grunts at the careless yet bruisingly powerful swat Washington lays across his ass.

"I don't suppose you'll stay put if I order you not to move," Washington murmurs, considering.

Hamilton does not answer. Of course he won't stay put. Obedience is not the name of this game.

"I thought not." Wry heat coats the words. And then Washington is gathering more rope, forcing Hamilton's legs so wide apart that his feet no longer touch the floor and his muscles immediately begin to ache. This new position strains the still distracting soreness of his ass, but beyond that he cannot fathom Washington's purpose.

Then Washington drops to his knees and quickly, tightly binds one of Hamilton's ankles to a sturdy table leg. And oh, too late he understands, and he is slow in resisting when Washington moves to tie his other ankle. Hamilton's wrists and forearms are already badly abraded. It seems his ankles are doomed to the same fate.

"There." Satisfaction glints in Washington's voice. "That should keep you out of trouble while I bathe and then clean up this mess." It's a thin pretense. They did not come equipped to remove blood stains from fabric—though in retrospect perhaps they should have.

Positioned as he is, Hamilton cannot watch Washington bustle about the room behind him. His face is toward the wall—the window and stove directly before him—the hearth just visible in his peripheral vision. He has no leverage, no way to escape the ropes biting into his skin. He cannot turn his head far enough for even a glimpse.

He can only listen as Washington moves through the house and fusses with their luggage. Enters the bedroom, returns a moment later. All the while pretending not to notice the naked, helpless man shivering impatiently on the table.

The front door opens, and then closes with a heavy slam, and abruptly Hamilton is alone. The realization is jarring. He is _alone_. Bound and helpless and awaiting whatever pleasure or punishment his general may return to inflict. Oh god, he has to _wait_.

Washington has made him wait before. The man's sadistic streak is the clever sort, and he has never shied from _any_ tactic if it has the potential to increase Hamilton's discomfiture. But this illusion of abandonment—this moment of being left entirely alone and yet inescapably restrained—is new and strange. A thing far too dangerous to attempt in shared lodgings, where some interloper could come upon him.

Even now, knowing they are entirely isolated in these woods—certain that Washington will remain close enough to hear if he calls out—a thrill of fear sings along Hamilton's skin. His heart pounds faster, excitement turning his breath shallow, raising his already stiff cock to even more rigid attention.


	8. Chapter 8

It's probably only a few minutes before the front door opens again—it can't take long to bathe in the river just outside and change into clean clothes—but it feels like an absolute and impossible eternity. Plenty of time for Hamilton's head to start spinning and his hyperactive imagination to conjure all sorts of unlikely scenarios.

But with Washington's heavy footsteps once more filling the kitchen, Hamilton's mind settles, senses honing in on every minute sound. When Washington passes the stove toward the hearth, Hamilton sees that he has indeed donned clean breeches and shirt, though he hasn't bothered to button up his waistcoat and his sleeves are rolled enticingly to his elbows.

Hamilton's mouth waters at the sight of those thick, muscular forearms, and his hips give a useless stutter that jostles the table with a quiet thunk. Washington _must_ hear, but he gives no outward sign as he continues to the fireplace. Banked embers still glow on the stone, and Washington hangs a heavy bucket above them before stoking them to life and adding fresh wood. Leaving whatever is in the bucket—presumably river water and the bloodied fabric—to heat.

"Adequate," Washington murmurs with satisfaction, then turns to regard Hamilton with high-arched eyebrows. "Now. What to do about _you_."

Hamilton breathes a hurt, pleading whimper. No words. He knows he does not need words to convey _exactly_ the sentiment that will best work Washington into a fervor.

"Be easy, little one," Washington says with a cruel smile. "I know what you need. Would I hurt you?"

"Let me go." Pointless to renew the plea, but Hamilton does it. Makes sure his voice sounds small. Vulnerable. Watches the possessive glint of hunger spark in Washington's beautiful eyes. "Your Excellency, I beg you. You've already had me, please let me go." He focuses on the pain deep inside him, on the agonizing stretch of muscle where his legs are forced and held wide apart, on the throb in his face where Washington struck him, on the burn of abraded skin at his wrists. He uses the pain to conjure fresh tears and then—twisting his arms so that the bite of the rough rope makes his breath hitch—allows the tears to fall.

The shameless display draws Washington closer. Now he stands directly across the table on which Hamilton is laid out, and after a torturous span of seconds Washington reaches forward with one hand. Threading his fingers in Hamilton's hair, gently at first. Only to clench a harsh fist in the strands and force Hamilton's head back so far his neck and shoulders strain taut.

Hamilton jerks against the hold, but Washington only grips harder. Making his scalp sting. Drawing a gasp from Hamilton's throat.

Distracted as he is by everything else, Hamilton only now notices that Washington's other hand is not empty. In a relaxed, deceptively casual grip, Washington holds a long reed-thin length of wood.

It's a vicious-looking switch, and Hamilton's breath stutters at the sight.

" _No_ ," he cries as delighted eagerness buzzes through him and makes his pulse pound deafeningly in his ears. He jerks harder against the fist in his hair, to no effect. Oh god, the pain Washington will be able to inflict with such an instrument—light and innocuous though it seems—is enough to knock the breath out of his lungs and leave him lightheaded.

Washington's answering laugh is a distinctly unkind sound, and it calls up renewed arousal, a burst of desperation in Hamilton's chest.

"There's no point protesting." Washington sets the switch down atop the table, so close beside Hamilton as to brush his bare shoulder. "You've already proven you won't be brought to heel by gentler means." Then, unburdened, he flattens his palm and—without letting go of Hamilton's hair—slaps him across the face.

Hamilton cries out at the ringing crack of impact. It hurts not just from the plain force of the blow, but because it lands on his already bruised cheek. Hamilton's face burns hot, and his eyes water with fresh tears. He inhales unsteadily and cannot look away. Washington still holds him too securely.

"You think this will work instead?" Hamilton snarls, thrashing within his bonds and failing to move so much as an inch. "You think you'll break me? Can't coax me to behave so you'll _torture me_ into obedience? What will torture accomplish when you've _already violated me_?" His voice rises with every word, until he is shouting at his general. And fuck, the novelty of it, the knowledge that he does not need to keep his voice down. He is crying in earnest now, his chest feverish, his lungs heaving. He sounds panicked to his own ears. Loud and defiant and yet somehow still pleading—as though hoping against hope that the right words will convince Washington not to hurt him.

Of course, the right words _will_ convince his husband to stop. But Hamilton has no intention of using their code to end this now, and he has no fear that Washington will mistake his increasingly desperate pleas for a true desire to stop.

Washington slaps him again, open palm heavy and sharp as it cracks across his face.

God, he makes it look so easy. As though this show of violence costs him no effort at all, even while the strength of the blows leaves Hamilton reeling. 

This time Hamilton bites his tongue as his head rocks, and he tastes blood. He is not expecting Washington's empty hand to close around his taut neck an instant later, but there it is, hot and powerful. Squeezing just hard enough to remind Hamilton how easily oxygen could become a precious commodity.

"Perhaps you are asking the wrong question," Washington observes, his tone alarmingly mild.

"Sir?" Hamilton rasps, shaking beneath his general's powerful hands.

"You ask what more torture can accomplish—and do not mistake me, I have every intention of causing you a great deal more pain—but consider this instead. I _enjoyed_ violating you. I have not balked at violent rape. At striking you and sodomizing you on this very floor." The grip at Hamilton's throat tightens incrementally. "What else might I be capable of?"


	9. Chapter 9

Hamilton swallows with difficulty, shivering at the intensity of Washington's regard. Silent for once. Breathing hard, but this time he has no snappy retort.

Another ringing slap connects with his hot cheek, and then Washington lets go of him completely. Steps back. Navigates around the table—behind Hamilton—so that once again the only way to track him is by sound. Hamilton wriggles in place, making the sturdy table creak. He is riled and painfully aroused. He cannot catch his breath.

The reedy switch disappears from beside him, collected by a steady and soundless hand. Hamilton trembles and braces himself, nearly jumping out of his skin when instead of the expected strike, the next touch he registers is a hand smoothing along his spine. His reaction garners a disdainful chuckle as Washington's touch traces the ropes at his wrists, tugging experimentally, apparently pleased at how the bonds are holding.

Lower still, and then battle-callused fingers are stroking the swell of his ass. Teasingly gentle. Hamilton's whole body clenches, still expecting a blow, and the response reminds him of the damage deeper inside. He tenses, clenches his jaw to prevent a strained sound.

He is not expecting two fingers to plunge directly inside him, driving past his swollen and aching rim with no illusion of care. Hamilton cries out at the intrusion, choking on tears, squirming and only managing to impale himself further on the long digits.

God, it _hurts_. Nothing like the more potent agony of splitting apart on his general's cock, but agony just the same.

"Stop!" He writhes, compounding the sharp ache.

Instead of withdrawing, Washington crooks both fingers, finding and stroking Hamilton's prostate and dragging a raw sob from his chest. Too much pleasure crests alongside the other sensations, sparking along Hamilton's awareness with such vigor that for several seconds he whites out.

When he recovers himself, the fingers are still inside him, twisting and scissoring, making it maddeningly difficult to keep his own orgasm at bay. It is only long practice that keeps him in check, even as he belatedly notices the second hand cupped warmly around his stones.

Hamilton guesses what is coming half a second before Washington closes his fist tight, crushing the delicate handful with impossible strength. Hamilton shrieks, jerking atop the table, kicking uselessly to get free and only scraping his ankles raw against the ropes and rough table legs.

It shouldn't be possible for Washington's grip to tighten even further, and yet it does. Crushing and crushing, coaxing an endless staccato of ragged sobs. Hamilton doesn't even realize he is pleading through the haze of torment, until he hears the words as though someone else is speaking them. A ceaseless, shattered mantra of, " _Stop_." Over and over.

Wrecked and humiliatingly plaintive.

Of course Washington doesn't stop. Merely loosens the torturous grip to secure a better position and clench even harder. And as though he does not consider this punishment sufficient, Washington simultaneously straightens his fingers in Hamilton's ass and drives them suddenly deep, halting only when his hand is flush with Hamilton's body.

Hamilton cannot _think_ through the maelstrom. He bucks hard, trying to get away despite the futility of the effort. Perhaps he is still begging Washington to stop—if he is, he certainly does not possess the fortitude to restrain his wayward mouth.

Then, as quickly as they appeared, both hands are gone. Releasing him. Slipping roughly out of him. There is more quiet movement from somewhere behind, a splash of water in the basin by the door. Then footsteps approaching once more.

Despite the overstimulated exhaustion suffusing him, Hamilton tenses anew. Giddily assuming the worst and bracing for what comes next.

He does not have long to wonder before the switch connects, laying down a first stinging stripe. It whistles through the air, a deceptively soft sound, before landing across the bare skin of his ass. The bite of it is understated but vicious, and the sensation makes Hamilton jolt against the table, a sharp cry lodged in his throat.

A second strike follows fast, crossing the hot burn of the first and knocking the cry loose. A third takes him just above the backs of his thighs, and Hamilton sobs noisily.

Washington pauses, rubs a considering hand over the first lines of pain. "You mark beautifully, my boy. I should have put you to proper use years ago."

Hamilton only yanks his bound wrists in answer, not surprised when the ropes continue to provide no give whatsoever.

Washington hums a pleased sound and removes his hand from Hamilton's backside. A heartbeat passes, and the next stripe falls higher. Then the next. And the next. A dozen blows rain down in quick succession, and now Hamilton is squirming frantically. Writhing beneath every sleek impact as welts rise along his ass and upper thighs. His only consolation is that, even spread this wide, his stones are apparently safely out of the line of fire.

Or so he assumes right up to the moment Washington angles a perfect strike to catch the delicate flesh.

Hamilton's scream is raw gravel, cutting through the quiet kitchen, deafening even in his own ears. Oh _fuck_ , it's a pain so unique he can't make his brain process the information. A hot, precise, piercing assault on senses he does not have words for.

He can't brace for such a feeling—can't hear Washington's movements any longer through the ringing in his ears—and he is so wildly tense that he screams again when the next blow finds only the backs of his thighs. There are dozens more such stripes, cutting into his backside and yet avoiding a repeat of the glorious worst. They hurt more with every successive stroke of the switch, welts layering and bruising, and Hamilton wonders if he is bleeding.

Wait, he thinks in a shaky moment of lucidity, that's a foolish question. Of course he's bleeding. The only uncertainty is, how bad is the damage? How must it look, intermingling with the sticky mess already staining the space between his thighs?

Hamilton does not quiet as the swats continue endlessly. He can't—he has lost all control of his voice—all ability to stifle his own sobs and groans and shrieks. The blows are growing harder now—or perhaps they simply hurt more in the absence of undamaged skin. Washington has painted vicious lashes _everywhere_ , from the topmost swell of his ass all the way down both legs. He has even landed a couple seemingly careless blows to the soles of Hamilton's feet—an agony second only to one other place.

When Washington strikes that place again, catching Hamilton's stones without so much as a pause in his cruel pace, the resulting scream leaves Hamilton's throat raw. His mind feels foggy, his senses swimming. He is so lost that he almost fails to notice the soft click of the switch being set once more on the table beside him.

When he manages to turn his head and focus his gaze, he belatedly receives confirmation: there is red staining the pale wood.

Washington has bloodied him indeed.


	10. Chapter 10

For a time after he sets down his chosen implement, Washington can only stare in delighted awe at the damage he has wrought. His boy's backside is a mottled patchwork of abuse. Pinks and reds and a scattering of rising purples where layered bruises have already begun to show. Welts criss-cross every available inch of skin, all the way down the backs of Alexander's legs.

Many of the fiercest welts—dozens of them—are bleeding. He's made an absolute mess of his boy, the likes of which they have never before had opportunity to indulge, and he's not sorry.

Atop the table, still trapped and bound and helpless, Alexander has long since ceased mouthing off. Any coherence has dissolved away, leaving only panting sobs and shaky gasps where his boy is usually all rebellious eloquence. Alexander has turned his face to the side, cheek pressed to the wood of the table, and Washington can see just how hard the tears are falling along feverish skin.

Alexander's cock still hangs stiff between painfully spread thighs, and Washington is impressed at this proof of obedience. He didn't expect Alexander to make it through this particular brutality without spending, permission or no.

He will have to reward his boy for this unlikely show of restraint.

But first he must calm him down.

It's a whole separate cruelty, to deny orgasm _now_ , in the face of the beating he just inflicted. Deliberate, though. Washington knows he's nearly reached the outermost edges of Alexander's mental and physical limits, but he has not yet surpassed them. And the opportunity before him is too perfect to squander.

They have all the time in the world to savor this complicated game. Why should Washington end it _now_ , when he is perfectly capable of gentling his boy enough to enjoy a longer encounter?

He approaches the table at last, approaches _Alexander_ , and there is gentleness in the touch he bestows. Brushing aside sweat-slick hair. Tracing his fingers along the bruise he left on Alexander's face. Sliding one hand along the top of Alexander's spine in a soothing gesture.

Alexander's eyes clench shut and he sobs at the soft touch. Washington smiles and retreats just long enough to wet a clean cloth in the wash basin, uses it to wipe his boy's face. He makes a show of doing this, yet leaves the smeared mess of blood and semen drying between splayed thighs—pretends to ignore Alexander's wrecked and welted backside.

There is no need for words as he crouches to undo the knots securing trembling ankles. Words would probably be unwelcome in this moment, regardless. Too gentle and they'll ruin the illusion, shatter the fiction so meticulously crafted. Too harsh and they'll add new tension too soon, making it almost impossible to walk the delicate line Washington craves.

There is yet so much he wants to give his boy before letting this debacle end.

Both of Alexander's legs are badly abraded beneath the ropes. Even once loose, Alexander doesn't move. Too exhausted. When Washington pulls him up from the table, Alexander's legs give out, nearly toppling him to the ground.

Quick reflexes snap Washington to action, catching him. But even as he tucks Alexander to his chest, the boy gives a helpless wriggle as though trying to escape.

"Don't touch me," Alexander begs, but the plea is faint and weak. No strength in either the words or his accompanying struggles.

Washington injects a convincing air of cold malice into his answering chuckle. Then, with careless strength, he shoves Alexander right back down onto the table. It's a forceful push, and Alexander grunts at the impact, then whimpers and tries to shrink in on himself. The sound would be guaranteed to rouse a prominent cockstand beneath Washington's breeches if he were not willfully keeping his own ardor at bay. Alexander makes a pathetic effort to roll his shoulders and dislodge the pinning hand from the nape of his neck, and Washington laughs again.

That Alexander can't seem to stand under his own power is no hardship to Washington's plans.

It's a simple enough matter to redirect. Instead of immediately dragging Alexander into the sitting room—a space with more comfortable furniture and an unnecessary fire already crackling low and inviting in the hearth—Washington collects the discarded lengths of rope and kneels behind his boy once more.

It is laughably easy to force Alexander's legs shut and cinch his ankles together with one coil. Then with the other, Washington does the same at the knees, effectively and utterly immobilizing any slim hope of escape.

When he stands, he can't resist touching Alexander's ruined backside. The palm he places at the swell of one bruised and striped cheek is enough to make his victim choke a helpless sound and jolt atop the table. But there is nowhere for Alexander to go, and Washington presses harder. Savoring the raised pattern of criss-crossing welts, the impossible heat, giving a squeeze just to see his boy choke and squirm.

He uses the still wet cloth to wipe his hand clean of blood. Then, without allowing any outward sign that such an unwieldy feat is at all challenging, he hoists his trussed-up husband over one shoulder and carries him out of the kitchen.


	11. Chapter 11

The sitting room is uncomfortably warm with the fire burning, but Washington doesn't mind. His boy—naked but for the ropes binding him—will likely appreciate the heat, despite the feverish burn of abused skin. Washington navigates to a surprisingly plush settee near the hearth. It's an incongruous piece of furniture, at odds with the bare walls, the rough stone fireplace, the uneven floorboards. Washington is not going to complain, however. It's marvelously comfortable, and he would requisition it for himself if he could.

When he reaches his destination, he drops Alexander not on soft cushions, but on the bare floor between settee and hearth. He's careful about it, but also deliberate in maintaining the illusion of rough handling—letting Alexander fall just far enough to feel a shudder of impact.

Alexander immediately moans and shifts his weight, clearly trying to take pressure off his collection of bruises and welts.

Washington smiles and helps reposition him upright—smiles wider at the wary suspicion that flashes at the unsolicited assistance. But of course Washington's help is not a kindness. He is entirely selfish in his efforts, guiding Alexander up into a kneeling position, steadying him when bound legs make him wobble with poor balance. Positioning him directly in front of the settee as Washington sits—

As Washington spreads his legs wide and gives a sharp tug, putting Alexander _exactly_ where he belongs.

Washington's spent cock is still soft—more by force of will than anything. Alexander's is still hard, curving and flushed against his thigh. Alexander remains upright on his knees despite the challenge of balancing without being able to move his limbs. Washington pulls him even closer. 

He steadies Alexander with one hand. Loosens his breeches and draws his prick out with the other.

Alexander's eyes go wide as he pretends not to understand Washington's intentions. "Sir? Wha— What are you—?"

"Shh," Washington murmurs, soft tone a contrast to the fistful of Alexander's hair he grabs, the strength with which he forces his boy's head down. "Don't ask naive questions. Just _come here_."

" _No_." Alexander tries to pull away. " _Stop_!"

Washington does not stop. And he barely needs to exert any additional strength to keep forcing his will. It's easy as anything to shove Alexander's face between his thighs. And then, guiding his still soft length, he forces the head past Alexander's protesting lips.

_This_ Alexander could easily have rendered more challenging, simply by clenching his jaw and refusing to open his mouth. But perhaps he is too exhausted, or perhaps caught off guard. Either way, the result is the same: Washington's cock silencing weak protests as he feeds Alexander every intrusive inch.

He continues to drag Alexander by the hair, all the way down. Not stopping until there is no farther to go—until Alexander's face is crushed to Washington's groin, lips spread wide and wet around the base—until the head nudges at the back of Alexander's throat and makes him gag.

There is no give at all in Washington's grip when Alexander tries to jerk back from the choking sensation. He keeps Alexander relentlessly still, getting a better grip to hold his boy in place.

Alexander has no choice but to fight down his spasming gag reflex and somehow regain control—a process that takes significantly longer than usual. With every wet, ugly, exquisite sound to gutter from his abused throat, arousal sparks brighter in Washington's belly.

Inconvenient: he is trying _not_ to stiffen just yet.

But if the choking, swallowing pleasure of Alexander's mouth raises him to half mast—making Alexander's task all the more difficult as the tip slips down that unwilling throat—well then. That's hardly Washington's fault. Alexander will simply have to contend with the consequences of his lapse.

It seems an eternity before Alexander finally quiets, getting himself belatedly under control. Breathing with some evident difficulty around the length nudging into his throat. Even from where Washington lounges, it seems a tenuous balance. Alexander is trembling violently beneath Washington's hand. His face is splotchy, his cheeks wet, his eyes red and swollen from crying. His lips strain around the girth filling his mouth, and the bruise on his face will be truly spectacular by morning.

He is so beautiful that for several seconds Washington cannot breathe.

His gorgeous, impossible husband. Forced to his knees. Bound and hurting. Crying as he accommodates Washington's cock. 

Every tiny movement sparks new pleasure, making it even more difficult not to stiffen. The thoughtless slip of Alexander's tongue along the underside of his shaft. The twitch of muscle where the tip remains just barely inside his boy's throat. The shifting of lips as Alexander tries—pointlessly—to find a less taxing position against Washington's belly, between his thighs.

But despite these restless movements, Alexander is calm now. Washington can tell from the loosening of narrow shoulders, and from the steady in-and-out of Alexander breathing through his nose. Quieter with every passing moment, as he accepts what Washington is giving him.

Under normal circumstances perhaps Washington would content himself with this. He will never tire of Alexander's mouth, or of forcing him to patience—forcing him to _be still_ —soothing his boy's frenetic energy in the only way that works without fail. There is a book on a small table beside the settee, placed there in advance for this exact purpose.

He fully intends to enjoy a span of reading by firelight while keeping Alexander crouching at his feet. _That_ part of his plan is in no danger of alteration.

But before he reaches for the book, he decides to indulge in one more small, deliberate torment.


	12. Chapter 12

Without letting go his grip at the back of Alexander's head, Washington sets his free hand on one trembling shoulder. Lets it sit there for several seconds, heavy and meaningful. And then—with Alexander staring up at him from where his face remains squashed between thick thighs—Washington exerts pressure and begins forcing Alexander's body _down_.

Expressive eyes widen with comprehension, betrayal flashing as Alexander immediately begins to resist. There is no point, of course. Alexander has no leverage beyond his own shaky strength. But Washington has muscle and gravity and whole reserves of energy on his side. He pushes harder, forcing Alexander to sit back on his heels—forcing unwelcome touch and pressure along ruined and feverish skin. The worst of the welts will land directly against the rough rope binding Alexander's ankles together, but even the rest must surely be agony.

Washington can imagine only in the most abstract way how this new position must feel.

His suppositions are confirmed by the garbled, muffled shriek that Alexander chokes around his cock. There is nothing exaggerated in the sound. Only sincere, shattered pain. Desperate protest as Alexander tries—and fails—to jerk upright and take the pressure off his still-fresh wounds.

Washington easily overpowers and holds him down. Holds Alexander's head just as securely when the jarring pain makes his boy begin to choke anew.

God, the sensations along his cock are magnificent. The involuntary jerking movements as Alexander unsuccessfully fights his hold. The choking spasms of the throat taking more and more of him as Washington continues to stiffen. The tremor of vocalizations as Alexander sobs and cries and whimpers around the increasingly invasive length.

Washington does his best to quash his own mounting need, keeping himself at least partially in check. He fills even more of Alexander's throat now, and he knows from repeated experience that at full arousal he will cut off his boy's air.

That is absolutely where he intends this diversion to end, but he is in no hurry to get there. His boy _needs this_ first. The grudging stillness. The relative quiet and challenge of keeping this painful position as long as they can both tolerate the delay. This tamer and yet somehow no less brutal intimacy.

His hands do not relent. Holding Alexander firmly between his thighs. Holding him down so his boy cannot escape the throbbing burn of collected welts and broken skin. He is patient, and cruel, and he waits for his boy to calm once more.

Washington can tell breathing is already a more difficult task—that suppressing his gag reflex requires an incredible amount of Alexander's focus—that it is costing him significant effort to remain still. And yet it is also obvious, to Washington's practiced eye, that his boy is delighting in these tortures. The unnecessary twist of wrists beneath unyielding rope, the flutter of eyelashes to release a blur of tears, the flush suffusing ears and face. A hundred tiny tells that make Washington's heart swell and threaten to do the same to his cock.

"Stay _exactly_ there, you disobedient wretch." He paints the words with icy disdain, and savors the way Alexander's eyes squeeze shut in humiliation.

Then Washington takes both hands off the boy and reaches for his book.

It's a copy of _Cato_. Pointless to carry, considering Washington has all but memorized the entire play. And yet it offers the perfect pretense as he makes a show of ignoring the trembling man, naked between his legs, and begins to read.

It is obvious Alexander does his best. And whenever he makes any sign of weakening, Washington helps with an unforgiving hand. On his shoulder to force him to sit. Around his skull to keep him properly filled. Steadying and guiding him. Forcing him to accept every second of this deliberative eternity.

The illusion of repose is delightful.

There is such easy comfort in the crackling fire. Such a relaxed aura in slouching against the back of so plush a piece of furniture. Such domesticity and quiet about the entire scene, but for the fact that his bound, naked, battered husband cannot quite keep still.

Washington continues to read, turning the pages with care. Letting the moment linger endlessly, a growing contradiction of anticipation and satisfaction. There is no clock in this room—no clock anywhere in the house so far as he knows—but the movement of sunlight through the windows makes estimating time a simple enough matter.

It has been well over an hour. He has nearly reached the end of the play.

When his arousal rises to such a size that Alexander _can't_ remain docile, Washington shifts to hold the book in one hand. The other he threads through the sweaty chaos of Alexander's hair and grips _hard_ at the base of his boy's skull. Crushing him inescapably between splayed thighs as Washington continues to read.

Alexander breathes a muffled, pleading sound, to which Washington's only response is to wedge him all the more firmly in place.

To his credit, Alexander is no longer trying to rise onto his knees. He seems to have accepted the pain of sitting precisely as Washington requires—impressive—or perhaps he is simply too exhausted and lost to make any further attempts at rebellion.

The pleading sound sets off a fresh round of choking as Alexander gags again around the swollen length wedging gradually farther down his throat. Washington is no longer reading now. He still holds the book in one hand, pretending, but every single fragment of attention is on his boy. On the way Alexander can no longer get himself under control. On the wet, tortured sounds escaping his abused throat and the effort of _keeping him still_ as more desperate and instinctive resistance begins.

It's more of a challenge now, keeping Alexander's mouth where it belongs. Washington doesn't mind. Feeling this helpless loss of control is among his favorite indulgences, and he _revels_ in the sensations. Luxuriates in every cough, gasp, gag, whimper.

" _Behave_ , you insolent boy!" he growls with rage he does not feel.

The admonition only makes Alexander fight harder. Or perhaps it is less his general's scolding and more the simple fact that he cannot breathe. Washington is at rigid attention across Alexander's tongue now, down his throat, surely cutting off the air he needs. No more sobs or whimpers escape into the electrified contours of the room—Alexander's voice is too thoroughly silenced, leaving only the sharp staccato choking sounds that come ceaselessly now.

Washington is nearing a new precipice—a line he has not crossed before—and at last he sets aside his book in order to give Alexander his true and undivided attention. Here is where he would normally drag his boy roughly off the line of his cock and then guide him to vicious motion—or perhaps rise to his feet in order to thrust freely in pursuit of the same pleasure—fucking that struggling throat with eager and greedy abandon.

The rough use would delight Alexander, making it difficult but not impossible to breathe.

But instead of jerking to motion, Washington continues to hold his boy still. Keeping him trapped securely—helplessly—on the asphyxiating length of Washington's cock. Alexander's shaking, jolting resistance increases as the need for air grows more desperate. Washington continues to deny him—holds him with both hands now—easily restraining his prey despite increasingly frantic struggles.

"I've got you, Alexander," Washington murmurs, gentleness in stark contrast to the violence he is committing.

Alexander's eyes open with difficulty and stare up into his face. Wide and disbelieving and shining with tears. Even now he could signal an end to their activities, and Washington watches for three deliberate blinks that do not come.

Then Alexander's eyes clench shut once more, sending fresh tears streaming down his cheeks.

The involuntary jolts and shudders begin to weaken. Slow in frequency. Until Washington's beautiful, impossible, rebellious, perfect boy finally loses consciousness.


	13. Chapter 13

Hamilton wakes disoriented, with confusion singing beneath his skull, and an ache in his jaw and throat nearly pronounced enough to compete for attention with the fiery agony of his entire backside.

He first remembers the bite of the switch—the faint whistle and powerful sting of reed-thin wood—bruising and welting and even splitting his skin. When he tries to move, he can't. Not even his legs, and he blinks bleary eyes, taking in his surroundings. Lost and foggy and yet so aroused his head spins.

He's on his stomach, staring at plush fabric from such close range that his vision blurs. His arms ache, twisted as they are behind his back—and he gasps at the discomfort when he tries to move them, remembering only belatedly the chafe of ropes that have been rubbing him raw.

The pointless shifting provides inadvertent friction, his cock riding against something simultaneously soft and unyielding. He abruptly remembers his last few moments of consciousness—his disbelief that this time Washington did not intend to let him breathe—his powerlessness beneath his general's inescapable hold. Arousal zings hot through his blood as he considers those graying, fading seconds before nothingness took him.

He has no leverage, and yet he ruts helplessly forward, grinding himself against the firm pressure beneath his hips.

"I see you're finally awake." Washington's taunting voice washes over him and makes Hamilton shiver with helpless, eager heat. An instant later and one of Washington's hands closes hard over Hamilton's ass—forcibly stilling him and pushing him down—inspiring a startled cry of pain in the process. Jesus, his skin is on fire, feverish and sensitive. He wriggles beneath that heavy hand, but he can't dislodge it.

" _Behave_ , Alexander," Washington admonishes in a voice that cuts immediately through his resistance. Quiets him. Calms him.

Hamilton stills despite his discomfort, and registers his current position with expanding awareness. The plush fabric before his eyes is the upholstery covering one arm of the settee. He is spread lengthwise along the surprisingly delicate piece of furniture—but it isn't only soft fabric beneath him. There is also the firm warmth of Washington's lap under his hips—the maddening pressure which he is so desperate to rub himself against—and the answering nudge of a hard cock.

Washington did not spend himself while Hamilton was unconscious. Or if he did, he has returned to stiff attention with impressive swiftness.

Hamilton twists to look up over one shoulder, and finds Washington only now setting his book down on the small table. The idea of Washington _continuing to read_ the entire time Hamilton has been insensate… It should not further ignite the unquenched ardor inside him.

But oh god, it does.

The fact that he is still thoroughly bound, arms and legs both, tells Hamilton the game is not over. His own satisfaction may yet be an eon away, considering his general's patience and cruelty.

So it is with utter helpless deference that he meets Washington's cool regard and begs, "Please let me go."

One eyebrow quirks high and Washington's mouth tips down at one corner. Icy disapproval—or an impressive show of it—and Hamilton's whole body burns.

The hand on his ass gives a deliberate squeeze, and he chokes a pleading cry.

"Be perfectly still," Washington murmurs, "and perhaps I will free you instead of punishing your disobedience further."

"Oh god, sir—"

" _Be. Still._ " Washington repeats sharply.

Hamilton bites his tongue to stop the flow of protests pooling in his mouth. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall forward. Messy hair obscures his face, and one hot cheek presses to the fine upholstery. He tries to regulate his breathing; he is entirely unsuccessful.

The moments that follow are surreal and incongruously gentle. The hand on his ass lifts away—immediate relief at which Hamilton gasps a shaky breath—and then there are lighter explorations for a time. Both hands touching him in ways that are softer than before, though one would never mistake them for kindness.

A tracing of fingers along his spine. A mapping out of bruises over Hamilton's shoulders and throat. A tug as Washington sweeps aside the curtain of hair hiding Hamilton's face, and traces his mouth with deliberate fingers.

Two of those fingers press inexorably forward until Hamilton's lips part and allow them in. They shove deep, across his tongue and right to the back of his throat, making it difficult not to gag.

It feels like he is being tested. And so Hamilton retains control despite the abused and exhausted state of his throat. It's more difficult than usual, and the respite is palpable when those taunting digits retreat. They are still wet with his spit when the same hand curls threateningly around his throat—not cutting off his air, but making it clear such a thing would be laughably easy to accomplish.

Hamilton can barely breathe regardless, through his anticipation of renewed brutality. This comparative softness cannot last. It is winding him tight, a cruel game rendering it nearly impossible to remain still. And all the while Hamilton _does not know_ what he is meant to do.

His general cannot truly expect him to behave. As desperately as Hamilton is trying, he is ultimately doomed to fail. He is too tired, too frantic, too hurt, too hungry for Washington. He _must_ inevitably let his general down.

The hand at Hamilton's throat remains unmoving, but Washington's other hand continues to torment him. Already the softness is diminishing. Washington traces the ropes, prodding at abraded skin. Hamilton's arms, his ankles, the backs of his knees. All of these hurt—worse with the tease of blunt fingers—and it's all Hamilton can do to remain still and obedient. Wounded noises escape his throat, unrestrained by either pride or caution. Sobs and whimpers and the occasional breathless, " _Stop_."

Then blunt fingertips move on. Away from the ropes to instead traverse the crosshatch of welts intersecting all over Hamilton's legs and backside. Tracing the worst of them with cruel curiosity that makes Hamilton squirm and his cock twitch.

He is not thinking. He _cannot_ think through this new stimulation. And so he is caught utterly, ruinously off guard by the crack of an open palm across his bruised and welted ass.


	14. Chapter 14

Hamilton's shriek at the impact is abruptly silenced by the tightening of the fingers still gripping his throat. Instinct and shock prevent him from doing the smart thing—playing dead until his general relents—and instead he thrashes. Earns another immediate blow that hurts so much his senses spin.

A third smack lands before he can even misbehave enough to earn it. A fourth an instant later. Alternate cheeks now. Continuing. Laying into him so hard he would not be able to breathe even if Washington's grip weren't in the way.

His ass is absolute fire as the blows continue to rain down. Unpredictable now. Some landing high, clipping the worst of the welts. Some falling low across the backs of his thighs and painting subtler trails of pain. An endless, utterly relentless sequence as Washington works him over with no sign of slowing or tiring. Eventually the fingers circling his throat loosen, but even this is more likely because Washington wants to hear him cry than in deference to Hamilton's physical needs.

It's a trial that would work him into a wild state even under normal circumstances. Washington is so incomprehensibly strong, and every blow seems to come down harder than the last. There is nowhere for them to land that isn't already bruised and battered to hell.

_Fuck_ it hurts. It is torture. It's beautiful. It's an agony he never wants to end.

It is also too much, and Hamilton has long since given up any pretense at obedience. He squirms helplessly beneath the powerful and arhythmic cracks of his general's open palm, trying instinctively to escape. He even comes so near success that eventually Washington's restraining hand uncurls from his throat in favor of holding tight to the ropes around Hamilton's wrists. Using the extra leverage to hold him down—hold him still—and then upping the pace of his strikes to a downright impossible speed, as though to punish Hamilton all the more thoroughly.

Hamilton does not try to quiet himself beneath the assault. Instincts urging discretion are difficult to override, especially when he is distracted by such perfect violence, but he reminds himself with every scrap of coherent thought he can muster:

He can be as loud as he likes. There is no one to catch them in flagrante. Washington _wants_ to hear his sobs and screams and graveled pleas for release.

So Hamilton provides those things. His backside _burns_ under the general's heavy palm, and every helpless wriggle only compounds his torture. The scrape of ropes against skin—slick now at his wrists, which means he has struggled enough to injure himself—the throb deep inside him where he still aches from the dry ramming of Washington's cock. Even the soreness of his throat, less intense than when Washington fucks his face with welcome abandon, but still overworked and raw from the prolonged spasms of suffocation.

Just as Hamilton begins to think he sincerely cannot take more, the impacts cease.

The stillness is so sudden Hamilton sobs in surprise. Not relief—he knows his ordeal is not finished—but some fleeting illusion of it. Tears slip unheeded down his cheeks, into the already soaked fabric of the cushion beneath his face.

"Too much?" Washington teases, and strokes one broad, hot palm along Hamilton's ass.

Hamilton _chokes_ on his answering cry, shaking and trying thoughtlessly—pointlessly—to scramble away.

He has no leverage. No limbs to maneuver, nowhere to go. He is trapped across Washington's lap. Turned on and hurting and powerless to get away. Vividly aware of his general's unsated arousal bumping his stomach, a promise of rough use yet to come.

"You're beautiful like this, you know," Washington says, voice smooth as silk and words making Hamilton tremble. "Broken. Obedient. Helpless."

" _Fuck you_ ," Hamilton gasps, and the burst of rebellion earns him a single, open-handed _crack_ of Washington's palm in exactly the same place his general was touching with relative gentleness a moment ago. Hamilton cries out at the impact, but he is not sorry. He savors the renewed sting, even as he braces himself for agonies still ahead.

"Perhaps there is no hope of rendering you obedient," Washington observes coolly. Then, with no further warning, he shoves Hamilton off his lap.

Hamilton tumbles to the floor with a heavy thud, not quite enough to knock the wind out of him—the floor is hard but the fall isn't that far—but certainly sufficient to remind him of the widely varied hurts he has already endured. His backside burns where he hits the unyielding floorboards, and the movement jostles him in a way that makes it impossible to ignore his more deeply-seated pain. The effort to catch himself only twists restrained and aching limbs against rope.

For a moment the collection of hurts clouds his senses, drowning everything else out. Hamilton rolls onto his side and curls in on himself with a shuddering sob.

He does not hold that position for long.

Strong hands find him soon enough, familiar command in the way they grab and maneuver him. Even if Hamilton were of a mind to cooperate—even if that were what his general _actually wants_ —he would be unable to do so. He has no strength of his own left, and no use of his limbs in any case, thanks to Washington's perfectly crafted knots.

"Stop," he pleads, even as Washington drags him onto his knees— _up_ —and bends him forward over the settee. Velvety cushions register as fresh pain along his heightened nerves. Brushing along his skin. His shoulders, his chest, his stomach—even his thighs—as Washington shoves him forward against the seat. Deep as the piece of furniture is, Hamilton's forehead barely touches the back cushion as he is forced roughly into place.

He knows already that Washington _won't_ stop, absent a different sort of signal that Hamilton has no intention of providing.

"There now," Washington soothes, twisting his fingers in Hamilton's hair to yank his head to the side and force his face visible. He is a warm presence in the space behind Hamilton, but he is also—maddeningly— _not_ touching him. Aside from his hair, Hamilton has no solid proof of his general's proximity.

"Are you going to let me go now?" Hamilton pitches the question to the exact tone that will best get under Washington's skin. Low and frantic and rough around the edges. Naively hopeful.

Washington's answering chuckle, cruel and amused, shoots renewed arousal straight to Hamilton's already straining cock. His need is so long neglected, he fears he will lose his mind when Washington finally touches him.

In this moment, as the rest of them, his entire awareness is for his general, with only a passing wounded thought for the agony of his own untouched cock.

"Now." Washington's voice is farther away, and Hamilton can't see him—has to struggle to turn his face the other way and spot Washington standing in the open door frame. "Do yourself a favor, my boy, and _don't move_."

Then Washington vanishes into the kitchen, and Hamilton whimpers into the silence. Scrunches his eyes tightly shut. Forces grudging air into and out of his lungs. It's not obedience that keeps him exactly as Washington has left him.

He is simply too exhausted to defy his general again.


	15. Chapter 15

Washington does not go far.

He knows full well what his boy will expect—some new implement of torture, perhaps the switch again—some complicated continuation of their game. Alexander is perhaps even looking forward to it, sincerely as the boy delights in all manner of pain.

But Washington also knows he is nearing his husband's limits. That even a man so eager to be abused _cannot_ continue to take, and take, and take without consequence. The fact that Alexander might not recognize his own limitations is not new information. Washington is well aware of this fact, for all that he has faith his boy would signal if they truly crossed the line. Washington's own truest aim is to never put him in that position in the first place.

He will simply have to exhibit enough restraint for the both of them.

There is little temptation to keep Hamilton waiting, now that Washington is on the verge of providing long-awaited satisfaction. He tarries in the kitchen only long enough to collect the things he will need in the moments after, when he won't want to leave his wounded and exhausted heart alone. The basin of water and a new clean cloth. The most potent of the salves he brought to address the harms already indulged. A tin cup and an open bottle of Madeira.

His boy will require water to drink too—not to mention a proper meal after his lengthy ordeal—but Washington will see to those needs soon enough. For now his hands are full as he approaches the sitting room once more, silent on bare feet.

He finds Alexander with his eyes tightly closed, his breaths coming in heaving pants that raise and drop his shoulders atop the seat of the settee. 

The sight of him catches Washington's own breath in his chest. His impossibly beautiful husband. Trapped in the middle of the room. Inescapably bound, arms and legs and ankles, backside on obscene display in all its welted and beaten glory. Skin an angry, violent spectrum of pinks and reds and rising purples.

Blood. Not just along the worst of the welts criss-crossing battered skin, but also just barely visible in the crease between Hamilton's thighs—the mess Washington made of him what feels like hours ago.

Washington allows himself several silent, indulgent seconds to simply _look_. Absorbing the scene before him, memorizing every detail, letting even this stillness stoke the bright, possessive inferno smoldering inside him.

When he moves, it is careful and quiet. Setting down his burdens without a sound and proceeding very deliberately to undress. He must make _some_ noise that gives him away, because as he is folding his breeches and setting them aside, his boy stirs. Restless curiosity. And then a moment later comes the small voice.

“Sir?”

Washington does not answer. Naked now, he approaches his waiting, wounded husband. The air is pleasantly warm on his bare skin—he had begun to overheat beneath his too many layers of clothes—and his arousal curves flushed and rigid toward his stomach. He is desperate to force his way into Alexander’s body once again, to slake the lust that nearly undid him while he kept up the punishing pace of his hand on Alexander’s backside.

Without a word, Washington drops to his knees immediately behind Alexander. Bare skin brushing against welts and bruises, and earning a startled hiss.

The heat emanating from his boy is overwhelming. Feverish and heady. And Washington smiles, pleased with his own handiwork.

Pleased with the way Alexander’s entire body flinches when large hands bracket his hips.

“Are you scared?” Washington taunts, deliberately light.

“Please don’t hurt me, sir.” And oh, Alexander _must_ know what those quiet, desperate words do to him. They can only be deliberate. Shameless encouragement, as though Washington needs _any_ goading in this moment. He already intends to tear his boy apart and leave him bloodied anew.

Washington chuckles and presses his hips forward, seeks out Alexander’s tight entrance. He gasps at the pleasure of it when the head of his cock catches at the rim—a sound in perfect counterpoint to Alexander’s sharp inhale.

Alexander’s wrists fidget and pull against their blindings—bloodied here too—another place Washington will have to tend when he is through. Another glorious harm he could never dream of inflicting during the war, beset and surrounded and under constant scrutiny. When Washington drops his weight forward, his boy’s hands only grow more restless beneath him, the small helpless movements an inadvertent tease against Washington’s stomach.

He hitches forward, not a full thrust, just enough to breach his victim with the flushed tip of his cock.

Even this small intrusion makes Alexander sob and thrash. Delightful helplessness in the way he jerks and shudders and yet remains inescapably pinned by his general’s demanding bulk.

“ _Stop_ ,” Hamilton gasps, wild and shattered. “Oh god, I can’t, please don’t do this—”

Rather than silence this pleading cascade with the palm of his hand, as he would under normal—more discreet—circumstances, Washington reaches up with one hand and fists his fingers _hard_ in Hamilton’s hair. _Yanks_. The gesture so sudden and brutal, the sting of words strangles to an abrupt and shuddering halt.

Today Washington is not interested in gagging his boy. He will impose no silence. He wants to savor every vivid, eloquent sound without worrying that they are being too loud.

But still he enjoys the power of so easily flattening the frantic protests. He can feel the violent trembling beneath him—the spasming of muscle around the minute but obviously painful intrusion—and he thrills at dragging the stillness out for endless, torturous seconds.

Reminding this little lion _exactly_ where he belongs.

Then, without another word—with no warning at all—Washington fucks forward, forcing his cock deeper with brutal, unforgiving speed.

The scream that escapes Alexander at this violation is a high, throaty sound. Shock and pain echo in his voice, a sustained shriek of earnest agony that lasts until Washington bottoms out. Even then, as Washington slots fully home, Alexander does not quiet. The sustained note of agony shatters, breaking into shards and splinters—panting sobs that seem to shake from Alexander's very soul.

Washington gives the body beneath him no time to adjust to this new, invasive fullness. He does not allow Hamilton even a moment to get used to being impaled. Instead, with an appreciative moan, Washington drags his cock back along the resisting channel, and rams his entire length home once more.

Alexander's keen is weaker this time, though no less descriptive. And when Washington's violent pace continues unabated, he sucks in air between thrusts only to cry out again. And again.

Endless sobbing, panting, whimpering protests as Washington plows repeatedly forward, driving harder with every thrust.

The settee’s feet squeak as the power of Washington’s movement jolts the furniture forward, crushing Alexander into the cushion, covering him with pinning weight. He twists his hold in Alexander's hair even more viciously, forcing his boy’s head to the side so Washington can see his expressive face. The beautiful mouth, open around every whine and plea—closed only when Alexander's jaw clenches shut against some especially harsh pain. The hot flush burning Alexander's skin, especially beautiful where it highlights the bruise left by Washington’s hand. The clever eyes open and seeing nothing, glazed over with lust and agony and sensation.

The rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh reaches Washington’s ears, obscene alongside the more artful symphony of his husband’s wrecked and fading screams.

Between Washington’s knees, Alexander's bound ankles jerk against the floor, jerk against _him_ in a way that is not coordinated enough to be intentional. Between Washington and the couch, Alexander _squirms_. Restless in his agony, but just as helpless to get away as all his previous efforts.

When Washington shoves his cock forward in a thrust that catches his boy especially hard and deep—a maneuver rendered viciously easy by the fact that he has long since made his boy bleed again—he recognizes the particular tone of the words that sneak into the answering cry.

“Oh, _fuck_.”

Even if the cry were not enough to prove the point, there is the fact that Alexander's entire body goes rigid in the same moment.

Washington stills himself with difficulty, buried deep in feverish heat as his boy spends, probably making a mess of the settee. Washington does not give a damn about the fine fabric and cushions. His only concern is for holding himself back from a nearly overwhelming edge as his boy clenches tight around him.

Then, with Alexander shaking, exhausted and hurt, Washington withdraws. He moves with sudden violence, dragging his cock out of his boy with a calculated lack of care.

Alexander jerks and cries out, but of course he still can’t get away.


	16. Chapter 16

It’s a matter of efficient work then, Washington dragging at his own knot work to free Alexander's ankles, loosen and remove the ropes binding his knees. He does not yet release the badly abraded wrists.

For a moment, Washington’s breath catches in his chest, and he cannot find air through the affection crowding his ribcage. Love blazes bright and hot, fiercely protective inside him. That his husband allows this—welcomes this—cherishes every bite and bruise and sting. It is too much, and for a time he can do nothing but stare in desperate, winded awe.

Even this limited freedom is enough that Alexander's trembling legs slide clumsily apart, squashing his torso all the more firmly into the cushions beneath his chest as bare knees slip along the hard floor.

Blood smears the space between welted thighs, beautiful and improbable and too much to resist.

Washington rises from the floor, getting a firm grip and yanking Alexander with him. Another moment and he reclaims his lounging place on the settee, but this time he does _not_ bend Alexander over his thighs. This time he drags his boy down astride his lap, pressing those trembling legs wider apart—using his own knees to keep them forcibly spread—leaving Alexander unable to close his thighs as Washington manhandles him—

—as a heartbeat later, Washington uses the combined advantages of strength and gravity to force Alexander down-down- _down_ onto his cock.

Alexander's cry this time is weaker, spent exhaustion blurring previously sharp edges. There is no resistance at all. Even the harsh use Washington has already made of the tight channel does not seem to translate to any amount of instinctive _fight_. He is unquestionably causing pain—following Alexander's noisy orgasm with all this continuing stimulation must be unbearable—but other than the litany of panting, tearful sobs there is no protest.

Washington is tired, but this doesn't stop him from marshaling his ample strength in order to take what he wants. He grips Alexander by the thighs—fully aware that even in this he is aggravating the collection of welts and bestowing new bruises—lifting and dropping repeatedly. Forcing Alexander to ride the thick invasion of Washington's cock.

It is not an endeavor that lasts long, though to Alexander it probably feels like it will never end. With hands bound and legs splayed, there is nowhere he can go. No escaping the relentless motion he is being forced to endure.

" _Stop_ ," Alexander chokes on an especially harsh downward drag. "Stop-stop-oh-god-stop-fuck- _stop_." A gorgeous mantra, Alexander's voice thready and catching and helpless.

" _No_ ," Washington answers, ragged because he is so close now. So goddamn close.

He moves faster, savoring the involuntary clench of muscle around his cock. Savoring even more the soft, wounded sounds Alexander makes between every plea for respite. The precipice looms desperate along Washington's senses, pleasure mounting hot and tight beneath his skin, more frantic with every rise and fall of Alexander's body.

His perfect, brilliant boy. His clever husband reduced to panting sobs, too tired and hurt to resist. This gorgeous, loyal, passionate, _impossible_ man, shuddering in his hands and allowing every cruelty.

When Washington at last spends himself, he is buried as deep as possible inside his boy. Satisfaction crests and shatters through him, shaking him to pieces.

Just like the first time, he does not bite down on the delicate line of Alexander's throat to try and quiet himself. Welcome as the sting of teeth would surely be, he allows his voice to carry unmuffled instead. A wild cry of ecstasy—Alexander's name delicious on his tongue—offering this intimate honesty up between them. Gratitude and promise and soul-deep adoration mingle in the sound.

In the moments immediately after, Washington's body wants nothing more than to laze in the lethargic afterglow. But his husband is still helpless in his lap, and Alexander's wellbeing is far more urgent than Washington's fatigue.

He lifts Alexander off his softening cock with a grunt, earning a weak, wounded gasp. It's clumsy but quick work to maneuver his boy—drained but cooperative—to face him. Still straddling Washington's lap, but slumped forward against his chest now. Nuzzling sleepily beneath Washington's jaw, head apparently too heavy to hold up now that the assault has ended.

With his lap full of slouching husband, Washington's arms encircle the narrow torso—not in an embrace—but in the effort, as efficient as possible, to undo the knots from around delicate wrists.

The sigh Alexander breathes on being released is a low, filthy, _grateful_ rumble that shivers along Washington's skin. Another moment and Hamilton's arms squirm between their bodies, palms pressing to Washington's chest as though seeking out his gradually calming heartbeat.

"Thank you, sir," Alexander moans. He sounds almost drunk, bleary with exhaustion and exertion, with the fading aftershocks of overstimulation.

"Mmm," Washington reaches for Alexander's wrists, gentle with the chafed and bloodied skin. He rubs feeling back into what must be unpleasant pins and needles, shamelessly enjoying the way even this careful touch makes Alexander gasp and shiver.

He does not ask if Alexander is all right. The melting ease of the body drooping against him tells him all he needs to know, along with the thoughtless tease of kisses along his throat as Alexander settles enough to enjoy his present position.

Alexander still sounds disjointed and blurry when he whispers, like a confession, "I love you so fucking much. How are you real?"

Affection sings through Washington's blood at these words, and he leaves off massaging damaged wrists in favor of guiding his boy into a lingering kiss. Gentle now, for all that there is possessiveness kindling low and familiar in his chest. Slow and deep and indulgent. He cups Alexander's jaw with one hand, threads fingers as smoothly as he can through tangled hair with the other. Loosening the sweaty strands. Letting Alexander know without words how thoroughly Washington cherishes him.

Alexander hums into the kiss, obviously delighted.

Soon enough Washington will have to push Alexander away, if only to tend the wounds he has inflicted—more numerous than even their most ambitious games to date.

But for now there is only this. A different sort of care, more urgent by far. The assortment of physical hurts will keep. At the moment, Washington is concerned only with Alexander's heart.


	17. Chapter 17

Hamilton doesn't know how long he sits there curled in Washington's lap, sleepy and sated and reveling in the steady hum of more sedate pain.

It's difficult to mark the passage of time through the sluggish fog of his thoughts. The light outside the window has begun to sink low, but it's still unmistakably daylight. Hard to believe it is still the _same day_ , when his exhausted body has experienced so much—when Washington has had him so thoroughly, has used and tormented him in such overwhelming and varied ways.

There's only softness and care now. Long, slow kisses and massaging hands. Fingers at the nape of his neck, then lower, working out the tight places in the muscles of his shoulders, arms, back. All without dislodging him from Washington's lap.

There are soothing words too. Praise murmured in his husband's beautiful baritone rumble. Pleasure and affection. _I love you_ s and _little one_ s and other terms of endearment that always follow their more violent encounters.

His general taking care of him, patient and tender.

Eventually Washington pushes him to sit upright—more or less—and presses a cool tin cup full of water into his hands. Hamilton accepts the handoff and the wordless admonition to _drink_ , but cannot entirely conceal the grimace of pain at having his position adjusted. Even this minute movement jostles and reminds him of the feverish burn of welts along his ruined backside, making him vividly aware of the battered state of his ass.

Washington watches, silent and earnest, until the entire cup is empty, then asks, "Will you tell me how it feels?"

Hamilton's face flushes hot, but he can't look away as Washington plucks the cup from his hands and sets it aside. Curiosity glimmers in his general's expressive eyes, attentive and sharp. Eager.

"Which part?" Hamilton asks.

"All of it," Washington says. "Any of it. I would beg you to write the words onto a page for me to cherish, if I could be sure of keeping them safe. But if I cannot have that, I would like to hear you describe it."

Hamilton draws a slow breath and confesses, "I'm not sure I _have_ the words." It is a startling truth to admit. Hamilton _always_ has words. He is a man who knows what to say in even the most difficult circumstances. How is it that here, now, he can't seem to conjure his usual facility with language?

But already he can see Washington's expression softening, and he knows he is about to be let off the hook. His husband will not be disappointed in him. There is no negative consequence to failure—Washington will not even consider it a failure.

Despite all these things, Hamilton aches to give his husband what he wants. And so before any absolution can be spoken, he draws an unsteady breath and blurts, "The switch hurt so much I couldn't think."

Washington's eyebrows rise and a hint of smile twitches at one corner of his mouth. "Did it?"

"Yes." Hamilton peers into his face and digs deep in search of words to describe the indescribable. "It was so much worse than your hand or the belt. I've never felt so raw, like… Like you were flaying the skin right off me." He shivers at the fresh memory of it. The seconds of anticipation finally broken by the faint whistle and then incisive impact. The sensation of welts rising, skin splitting—no telling in the moment which blows made him bleed—it was _all_ agony.

"You suffered significant damage," Washington murmurs, pleased, and strokes one hand down Hamilton's flank to find and grab the swell of his ass. "You're a _wreck_ , my dear."

Hamilton hisses through his teeth at the burn beneath Washington's palm, his hips hitching helplessly forward. The touch only grips harder, kneading in a way that feels almost curious. Exploratory. Testing the terrain.

"Does that hurt?" Washington teases.

Hamilton groans a shattered laugh. "Of course it _hurts_. Jesus, you fucking _destroyed_ me. How am I supposed to sit a horse when we return home?"

Washington's smile twitches higher. "I'm sure we will manage somehow."

" _We_?" Hamilton retorts, restraining his own tired smile with great difficulty.

"Mmm." Washington's hand on his ass eases, shifts—

—And Hamilton gives a startled cry when blunt fingers prod at the only place that hurts more than the raw skin of his backside.

"What about here?" Washington's tone is still light, even as he forces two fingers past the swollen and fever-hot rim of Hamilton's ass.

" _Oh god_." Hamilton whimpers as those digits slip deeper, igniting a renewed burn of pain along his wrung-out nerves. There is ample slickness as the touch delves and twists inside him, but the give and slide do nothing to lessen the fresh sting.

"Does it hurt?" Washington asks, the same question as before.

" _Ngh_ ," Hamilton grunts, momentarily incapable of offering any other confirmation. He whimpers when those fingers crook and then still, holding their position tauntingly.

Hamilton did not mean to close his eyes, but when he blinks them owlishly open he finds his husband watching him with unvarnished mirth.

"You're a complete brute," Hamilton accuses when he finally manages to collect himself. Trying to hold perfectly still so as not to aggravate his injuries, and yet failing almost immediately—it's impossible _not_ to squirm on Washington's thick fingers.

"Tell me how it feels, and perhaps I will stop."


	18. Chapter 18

"It's _awful_ ," Hamilton gasps, making a show of blinking new tears from his eyes. "You've already torn me apart. How can you continue to misuse me?"

"Hmm." The sound is light. Considering. Juxtaposed against a _twist_ of the fingers in Hamilton's aching ass. "Was it too much after all?"

"You've never taken me so viciously." Hamilton pitches his voice low, husky, hurt. "I thought you would split me in two. I don't know how I even stayed conscious through such an assault."

As though reminded by his words, Washington's free hand curls along Hamilton's jaw, pressing the thumb hard against his lower lip. Coaxing his mouth open but refraining from sliding inside.

"And here?" Washington ducks his head forward to nuzzle at the corner of Hamilton's mouth. He murmurs his next words against the shell of Hamilton's ear. "Did you enjoy suffocating on my cock?"

"Oh, _fuck_ yes." Hamilton has barely finished groaning the words before he is turning his head, seeking out Washington's lips for a needy, pleading sort of kiss.

Washington humors him. Opens for the frantic thrust of Hamilton's tongue, then gentles the kiss by patient degrees. Calming him even as those fingers ease out of Hamilton's ass with unaccustomed gentleness. When at last Washington retreats, his expression has lost the tinge of mischief. He is all sincerity now, peering into Hamilton's eyes as though seeing right through him.

"Can you stand, Alexander? For just a moment? So that I can wash my hands and tend you properly?"

"I can try." It's the best Hamilton can promise. He is honestly not sure his legs will hold him.

"Tell me if you're about to fall," Washington admonishes. Then pushes him carefully away, guiding him to his feet.

Washington slips from the settee himself, vanishing briefly from Hamilton's line of sight. Hamilton does not try to follow his general's movements. He focuses on remaining upright. Mostly steady. Breathing deeply through the myriad points of pain coalescing inside him. He hears splashing water, a quiet thump, other rustling sounds and footsteps that draw nearer and retreat again, barely registering through his own distraction.

Then, abruptly as he vanished, Washington is back. Partially dressed—a potentially dangerous prospect if he wants his clothing to remain clean—in breeches and shirt sleeves. Moving with familiar grace as he sets a small, medicinal looking tin on the end table beside _Cato_.

"Here." Washington touches him, coaxes him down, once more spreading him lengthwise along the settee—over Washington's lap—chest pressed to soft cushions. This time Hamilton is able to fold his arms more comfortably beneath his head, and position himself so he can easily see his husband's face.

He does not ask _what now_. Washington always takes care of him. The harms to be tended may be greater than usual, but the ritual will be the same.

"This will not feel especially good to start with," Washington says.

Even with the warning, Hamilton flinches at the first touch of wet cloth on his abused backside. It hurts. But it's also soothing, the way the cloth touches him so gently, lifting away the blood and slick and mess from his skin. He gasps when Washington nudges his legs apart in order to dab away the tacky smear of blood and seed between them. He shivers when—rinsed and rewetted—the cloth travels along the backs of his thighs instead. Leaving him raw but clean.

The salve that inevitably follows has a cool, almost minty smell. It stings just like the wet cloth when Washington first touches him, but as his husband gently rubs the oily substance into one welt after another, a more soothing sensation begins. The sharper pains fade to a dull, steady throb that leaves Hamilton’s eyelids drooping.

He doesn’t intend to nod off, but he can’t help it. The weight of exhaustion is so heavy, and he is so comfortable. So safe. Even the continued aches in his body—the sting of Washington’s continuing ministrations—aren't enough to keep him wakeful in this moment.

He drifts in and out of fragmented sleep, Washington making no effort to coax him into remaining conscious. Sometimes when he wakes there is a hand rubbing salve into yet another welt along his backside. Sometimes there is a gentler touch sliding along his spine. Sometimes Washington’s fingers are carding through his hair, sweeping the strands away from his face in order to look at Alexander properly.

There is a sheen of adoration in Washington’s eyes, almost too powerful to meet directly. No pretense at reading a book now—Washington’s intense focus is _all_ for him—and Hamilton’s chest feels overwhelmingly full beneath the scrutiny.

When it’s too much, he closes his eyes and drifts off again. Secure in the knowledge that he will wake to the same steady care—and perhaps dinner for his rumbling stomach.

However long he sleeps, Washington will still be here.


	19. Chapter 19

They stay on at the house a few days longer than intended.

Washington can easily imagine the worry among his remaining officers, the impatient letters that will be waiting for him from Congress. The relentless progress of life and peace continuing forward without him.

But a few extra days cannot hurt. And when the supplies of food Alexander so cleverly laid in begin to thin out, it’s a simple enough matter to obtain what is needed from the river and forest around them. They are soldiers, after all, and Washington possesses years of experience living on what nature provides.

The truth is, Alexander could probably have managed to ride out on schedule. Still hurting, yes, despite the fact that Washington has made a point of employing more forgiving pleasures in the days since utterly dismantling his husband. But also healed enough to manage the trip—several uncomfortable hours to be followed immediately by seclusion and quiet—however long his boy might require to be fit to show himself in public.

But for once there is no rush. No one is waiting to reclaim this borrowed home. No one will require anything so urgent of him that a couple days’ delay can’t be managed.

No one in the wider world even _knows where they are_ , and that’s a reality more exultant than any Washington has ever experienced.

So they linger shamelessly, enjoying their reprieve. Washington alternates between using his boy, pampering him, and simply coexisting—staying out of the way so that Alexander can work at the writing endeavors he snuck along in their luggage—and all the while savoring this peaceful sliver of nowhere, in which they are beholden to no one.

“We’ll do it again someday, won’t we?” Alexander asks as he bundles his portable writing desk securely into an enormous saddle bag.

Their departure cannot be postponed forever. Today they will finally journey back to New York—where the final vestiges of the army await dismissal and a mountain of correspondence will have piled up.

“What? This?” Washington gestures at the house in its clearing, encompassing their solitude with one expansive wave of his hand.

“Yes.” There’s an unmistakable spark of mischief as Alexander ties off the final bag and sweeps smoothly into Washington’s personal space. “A man could get used to all this. Having you to himself. Wondering what tortures you might discover when _quiet_ is not a requirement. You’ve spoiled me so thoroughly, how can I go back to a life of pragmatism and discretion?”

Washington draws Alexander into the circle of his arms, crushing his husband tightly to his chest. There is immediate submission in the way Alexander opens for the lazy plundering of Washington’s kiss. Alexander leans in, pressing eagerly forward. Hums a soft, delighted sound as he rises onto his toes and twists his fingers in the blue buff of Washington’s coat.

“I’m afraid you will _have_ to recall how to be discreet,” Washington says when at last the kiss ends, “for I fully intend to despoil you at my leisure, seclusion or no.”

Alexander shivers at these words. Nuzzles with unaccustomed sweetness, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot below the jaw where Washington’s pulse beats a contented rhythm.

When Alexander eases back again, he is grinning wickedly. “Is that a promise?”

Washington’s only answer is to reel him in and kiss him again.


End file.
